


Ruins

by kjadie



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Afterlife, M/M, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjadie/pseuds/kjadie
Summary: The last body is caught on my spear. I snap the wood and hurl it at the next. There is a gentle force, like the wind through a string on the lyre. Time stops. The arrow pierces my armor like a flash of lightning. I fall to the ground, smiling.Patroclus.





	Ruins

The last body is caught on my spear. I snap the wood and hurl it at the next. There is a gentle force, like the wind through a string on the lyre. Time stops. The arrow pierces my armor like a flash of lightning. I fall to the ground, smiling. _ Patroclus_.

The air is dark and thick with dust. I open my eyes. My hands are as bloody as moments ago. There is no sky, only walls of stone. A crimson brazier flickers in front of me. I stand. An unlit torch lies at my feet. I am still wearing my armor, though I do not have my weapons. I feel naked without a spear or sword, but a torch should be enough. I light it in the flames. 

“Patroclus!” I cry out. “I am here!” The last time I held a fire, I was at his pyre. “Patroclus!”

There is no sound in return; even Echo abandons me here. 

Without thinking, I grip the edge of the brazier. How I held him, even in death. There is a crack like an arm snapping. The fire, instead of being fed by wood, is kept alive by bones. Skulls are at the bottom. I run and do not look back.

“Patroclus! Where are you?!”

The path splits into three paths, each fading into black, like dusk on a winter’s night. Further down, the ground is smooth in some places and sharp in others. I take the leftmost.

It is a strange feeling, being alone in the dark. Always the bravest Achaean, the Swift-Footed Achilles. Now, I am just a man with a torch in the dark. I could keep running, but I do not want to test the stability of the floor. If he is behind me, I do not want him to lose his way. _ If_. No, I would know if he was. I would know him in death.

There are paintings on the walls, of war and men, charioteers and soldiers. The soldiers are distorted and I do not recognize the color. They smell like wet clay. Shadows dance along the painting—the story of my life. There are unlit braziers, far down into the darkness. On this ancient path, they seem to be out of place.

Our art is usually bleak, dark figures on red urns. There are spotted bulls, too. I do not recognize the color. These are paintings out of time. Though, there is a man. He is larger than the rest, holding two spears, leaping into the air with one, and another in his hand. I only know one man who can do such a thing. Me.

Patroclus is beside me, running next to the chariot. He is not wearing a helmet. Reckless, I know. But he never had to because I was near. His eyes are dark like always, and just how I remember. For a moment, I see the blur of my reflection in his eyes.

In my mind, I can hear the sounds of battle—memories of sounds that will never leave. I look behind me. Out of habit, really. Each battle, I would always lead the waves of men first and then run back, shielding him behind me.

I did not protect him when he needed me the most. I back against the wall and cry, but I cannot feel the cold tears on my face.

Once I gather myself, I continue down the path. It splits again and now, my foot is over the edge. I nearly fall into the blackness, but I would not throw away my only light to test its depth.

The next path curves. Around what, I do not know. There are no walls aside from the bottomless dark. And stairs coming from nowhere? Unbelievable. I jump to a narrow path, hardly wider than myself. As I leap to it, I am flipped upside down, walking on the ceiling. I look back. The empty space between the stone path is wider. It would be impossible to make that jump again, even for me. The only way to walk is straight ahead. Well, it is difficult to say which direction is forward. I hum a small song. It is pointless, I know, but a small comfort.

_ I walk in your eternal path, traveling endlessly between the worlds, _

_ In the darkened labyrinth of life. Remember how you kissed with your eyes closed? _

_ The future we drew in our hearts, not knowing what the next step might bring. _

_ The earth is spinning, I must stay. My Love, why are you so far away? _

The stairs I just climbed are now a cliff that I cannot return to. The path is long enough for me to run. Though in another life, I might have been more careful. I do not know how long I have been running for, but my limbs are not tired and my breath has not left me. I rush through the turns of the path like a hunted lion. _ Where am I? _

There is a cliff with a small rock that is jutting out. I cling to it. When I pull myself to stand on it, I look down. I can walk down the cliff? And worse, there is another godforsaken set of stairs with no walls. I close my eyes, hoping to shrug off this wave of dizziness.

Whoever built these ruins was sadistic. Daedalus, perhaps? But Theseus had the blessings from the gods and a string. I have neither.

I fall from the rock, and land on the cliff. The drop is not far. Somehow, I land on my knees, then stand to walk ahead. Wherever that is. The ground is ramp beneath me. I slide down it, looking at the ceiling. The cliff I jumped from is there. I feel ill again. 

“Where are you, my love? I am here!” I am tired from thinking of death. I want to speak of something alive. “Patroclus!”

At least his name is with me, even if he is not. Feeling his name on my breath is the only consolation in this nightmare. Wait. 

What direction did I come from? How did I get here? 

I am certain I was here before. The ground is smooth. I look back, then above. Shadows of paintings—the ones from earlier. How did I get here again? I lean back against the wall for a moment, closing my eyes to catch my breath. When I open them, the paintings are beside me. They are the same as when I first saw them. Except, they were only a strip. Now, the paintings are larger, covering most of the wall. With more battles, more corpses, more blood. _ Why? _When I hold the torch to the wall and touch them, my hands become stained, dripping with blood. I stagger back.

Something hits my shoulders. Metal—an unlit brazier with oil in it, I think. I cannot smell or feel it. Is this the way out? I remember seeing a few, the ones that were out of place. If the others have oil, I could use the flames on the walls, just like the string. To show where I have already been.

I run down the same path I started from. Sliding down slopes, dashing around curves, leaping over endless heights with no end. I light the braziers along the way. Whoever this sadist was, they would not be victorious over me.

Aside from the paths without walls, it is not difficult, following the flames. It takes a few attempts, but not long. Down this path, there are rough, uneven tiles on the floor, along with broken columns. A new one, and thank the _ gods _ for that. I dash down a long set of stairs and open a door to a large room.

Bits of gold sparkle in the light of my torch. There are small urns and treasures and jewelry, lining the walls and surrounding a large altar. On the altar—made of marble, I think—there is the statue he made of me, singing to the sky. It fits in my hand; the wood is as smooth as I remember. Then I see our beautiful urn.

On our urn, next to the sea, there are athletes at their games. Chariot riding, footraces. Men and women are dancing, moving their quick feet to sweet music. There is a man playing the lyre near a vineyard. In the center, under the sky, is a wedding under a fig tree. I feel the wedding on my fingers like so many times before. I stay there for a moment, remembering the last time I felt our golden urn on my skin. In our tent, before I ran to die.

Beside our urn is a single, polished coin. Then I understand: This is the House of the Dead.

But why is he not here with me? We were buried together. We should be together. We _ were _ together. Could he be ahead? My eyes flash around. No, he is not here. In this life, where the dead forget the dead, I would know him. Our souls are entwined like an olive wreath; like the very same that was in his hands when I saw him for the first time.

I cry out his name through my tears. _ Patroclus, Patroclus. _ He should not walk that path alone. I turn to go back but there is no way out — just a wall. I call for him again anyway. _ Patroclus. Patroclus, please, do not leave me alone. _ Patroclus_. _

From the corner of my eyes there is a light, like fireflies on a moonless night.

**Author's Note:**

> Afterlife in Greek religion is impossibly inconsistent. Burial traditions and rituals varied from place to place, and even Homer isn’t consistent with his hot takes on the afterlife. So, this is my take on what happened to Achilles. I could go into way more detail on why I think this, but yeah!
> 
> The small song/poem is written in the same meter as the Iliad—dactylic hexameter. And the description of their urn is a throwback to Achilles’ shield in the Iliad.
> 
> The next chapters will be of him mingling with other people in Hades :)


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